


The light that filters through the lenses

by itsdeianeira



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Doctor Derek, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Light Angst, M/M, POV Stiles, Photographer Stiles, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsdeianeira/pseuds/itsdeianeira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The debilitated kid is hunched on the bathroom floor, his face hovering over the toilet, waiting for the next imminent, violent retching. Derek hasn't left his side for a minute, crouched by his tiny powerless body. A hand kept on his baby's forehead to hold his head and stop his brown hair from falling in the way.</p><p>And Stiles, well... Stiles is on the verge of a panic attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The light that filters through the lenses

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of months ago, I read an article on the HuffPost about a photographer whose photo had been censured on facebook because it pictured her baby boy on his father's lap in the shower. Trust me, the pic was beautiful, intimate and thoroughly pure, since no intimate body part was visible. But apparently, fb cannot even distinguish the artistic and poetic nude from mere porn - good job there, Zuckerberg! The story struck me and I thought about Derek & Stiles right away, so... Here's the outcome I hope you'll enjoy :)
> 
> The story is completely unbeta'd, so I beg your pardon for any mistake you might find.

This is bad. Stiles has never actually witnessed any of his children suffering through a virus disease as strenuous and draining as the one Avery's currently dealing with. The blood he has tried to keep cold until now is finally starting to boil over in his veins.

Day two of an aggressive gastroenteritis has seen Avery's temperature raising, and vomit and diarrhea appearing, straining his poor four-year-old. The debilitated kid is hunched on the bathroom floor, his face hovering over the toilet, waiting for the next imminent, violent retching. Derek hasn't left his side for a minute, crouched by his tiny powerless body. A hand kept on his baby's forehead to hold his head and stop his brown hair from falling in the way.

And Stiles, well... Stiles is on the verge of a panic attack.

He's standing inches away to leave his son some room to breathe. Derek is enough of an attendant in such a critical moment, and Avery doesn't need any more pressure.

“Stiles,” his husband says tight-jawed, looking up from their child to meet his worried gaze. “Stop it,” he decrees, with his typical exterior coolness.

During all the years spent together, Stiles has well learned to see behind that façade. He can read that face clearly: his eyes slightly wider than usual, the small cringes of apprehension that would appear between his eyebrows whenever his children were in danger, the agitation... It's almost imperceptible, and still it's there.

This is bad. If Derek's tense, Stiles is perfectly allowed to panic,  _okay_?

“What are we going to do, Derek? He's so-”

Avery lets the vomit out with an awful gag, pressing his brow on Derek's firm palm, as they zero in on him once again. He's crying and Stiles' heart is breaking.

“Dad, it hurts,” the toddler says eventually, when the retching finally subsides. One of his chubby hands, until now grasping the white rim of the toilet for dear life, slides to his tummy while he whines in pain.

Derek presses a kiss on his son's crown, reaching for a piece of paper to delicately brush off Avery's lips.

“It's okay, buddy. Don't worry about me and Daddy. We've been there, too, you know?”

“Yeah?” Avery turns his face pointing his big cerulean eyes towards Stiles, who feels something inside crumble. “You too, Daddy?”

“Of course, kiddo.” He says trying to convey as much reassurance as possible in his tone. He steps forward and sits on the floor beside his son, putting his hand on the small of his back, under Derek's. “And your Grandpa stayed by my side just like we are doing now.” Stiles forces his lips into a faint smile and that seems enough to convince Avery, who turns around again and nods to himself.

He's such a good boy, quiet and generous where Claudia never fails to be selfish and unreasonably loud. Basically his complete opposite. But they are always caring for each other, the both of them, and this makes Stiles so proud of his babies.

All of sudden, the roar of a new retching breaks through his son's small chest and Stiles is being called back to earth.

As soon as the sickness fades off, Avery is newly whining, his throat burning as he brings a hand to it. “It hurts so bad, Dad. I'm hot, and my tummy hurts, and my throat hurts. Can I have some water?”

“Baby, I know it hurts, but drinking now would not help your stomach...”

There is only so much a four-year-old can bare before bursting into tears, and Avery has definitely held on for longer that anyone could have expected him to. He dips his head, silently letting his tears slide down his rounded cheeks, and Stiles breaks down with him.

They can't go on like that, for Christ's sake!

“Derek, there must be something we could do!” he soughs, hoping his son is too caught up in his cry to hear him.

Derek looks at him with a burning fire in his eyes, trying to keep cool and shelve it for a more appropriate moment, solely for Avery's good. But even when he doesn't use his words, Stiles has by now learned to read his husband's expression. _Not in front of our sick child, Stiles_ _._

“Pup,” Derek says, still staring at Stiles. “See over there?” He asks his son, pointing out at the open bathroom door. Avery follows his index finger and nods. “It isn't very far, right?” Avery shakes his head. “Do you think you could hang here alone for a moment while me and Daddy talk real quick? We'll be right there, watching you.” Once again, the kid nods, and the second later, Stiles' arm is aching into a firm grasp as Derek drags him towards the threshold.

“Do you think if there was something to do for my child I wouldn't do it?”

The question comes out like a hiss while Derek struggles to keep his voice down but fails to contain the anger.

“It's a virus, Stiles. A rough one, but a virus nonetheless. It's not bacterial, which means no antibiotic could make the bug go away. If possible, it could have even made things worse by killing his intestinal flora.” As Derek speaks, his rage gradually disappears, his features softening until the only emotion showing on his face is hurt and worry. His mouth might have fallen silent, but his eyes speak louder than any voice. _Why don't you trust me?_ _Don't you think I can be a good father, too?_

Stiles feels awful. He has never doubted Derek's competences as a doctor. On the contrary, it actually makes him feel perfectly safe having him around. And he also knows Derek is a model father with Claudia and Avery, always carefully explaining them why they should not eat a certain unhealthy food too often, or go out in the cold while they're sweaty, to mention a few.

This morning, after bringing Claudia to the sheriff in all hopes to spare her the same virus her brother had caught, Stiles had come home to find his husband shrinking to fit on his son's bed, reading a story to Avery and lightly massaging the ache away from his tummy. Derek had even endured kid's puke on his clean t-shirt in the most heroic way, reassuring Avery it was nothing to feel guilty for, repeating it wasn't his fault.

He's aware Derek would do anything for his children, medical skills or not. It's just that... these situations send Stiles a little bit on edge. He hates feeling useless, powerless, while his children suffer.

Suddenly, he's yearning to reach out and close the bond with this incredibly perfect man standing in front of him. To restore the trust, the faith they both sometimes forget to put into each other. To mend the stitched soul with its scars still on display. To make Derek feel safe, to let himself feel safe.

Stiles follows his instinct, easing his palm on the stubbled cheek, staring at him with devotion. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you more. I'd just like to be of some kind of help.”

Derek blinks away the initial surprise at those words and relaxes his shoulders, slowly turning his face into his husband's palm to leave a kiss there, right under his wedding band. Derek looks up between thick lashes, and Stiles is all at once hypnotized by his beauty...

Then, Avery mewls as his abdomen emits a weird gurgle that breaks the spell. “Daaaaaad!”

The two parents spring back into the bathroom. And of course Stiles almost falls, slipping onto the smooth tiles in the frenzy of the moment. Fortunately Derek's alert enough to hold him by the shoulder. With heavy heart, Stiles watches as his younger toddler wobbles up on weak feet to frantically pull down his underwear and sit on the toilet. It's heartbreaking to see him bent forward wrapping his short arms around his belly, whimpering and sniffing. “It huuuurts.”

Stiles bows even closer to his child, brushing his finger through his hair and kissing his temple as a gentle reminder that he is not alone in this unnerving moment.

“Der,” his husband glances up in tender concern. For a fragment of second, he's afraid Derek might roll his eyes in anticipation of what Stiles might want to ask him. But as soon as they gazes meet all the uncertainty dissolves. “Can you drench that towel and hand it over, please?” Derek nods before standing up and walking to the sink to do what Stiles has asked.

When he gets back with the fluffy fabric, though, he doesn't extend it to his husband, going straight to dab Avery's forehead and neck instead, to provide him with some relief. The kid cranes his head backwards when Derek tells him to, and looks up at his father who had the free hand on the baby's nape. Derek smiles down at him and Avery mirrors him easily, forgetting the pain for a moment while his lips distend into a weak grin.

In that instant, the two of them share something just by watching in each others eyes, and even though Stiles has to admit he's feeling slightly jealous and left aside, he is wholeheartedly marveling at the scene.

When they had Claudia, six years ago, they realized straight away how much she resembled Stiles. A relentless force of nature that wouldn't stop bubbling, not even while eating or sleeping, constantly moving her tiny limbs in the air. Stiles feared they would have to stuff her with Adderall, but when she started kindergarten she proved them all wrong, his beautiful girl. She revealed to be just a very lively child who needs to play sports to worn all her excessive energies out, but she demonstrated to be perfectly able to keep focus on her activities. Even though she loves cuddles and displays of affection, she is mostly independent in her choices, even stubborn sometimes.

But the same doesn't go for Avery, of course. Every time Stiles observes his son, he gets lost thinking he is the absolute carbon copy of Derek. And not just in his appearance either, with his iridescent irises, his dark hair and his Hale brows. He is also extremely calm and collected, he winces when he's doubtful of something, and even if he is not even five, he has an eyebrow game to rival his father's. He cackles and cries rarely, but when he does, it is always a big deal, not without reason.

Another thing his father (well, the older one) earned him, unfortunately, is that damn self-sacrificing attitude that Stiles – honest to God – has often felt the desire to scroll off of him. But instead of telling him to stand up against his sister's pretensions, he ended up cuddling him more often than not. Because if Claudia likes giving big hugs and kisses sporadically during the day, Avery can cling to Stiles' neck or leg for hours and never leave his place, not even to let his Daddy have some peace and quiet on the toilet.

 _That_ , he took it from Stiles himself.

Today, however, for some reason the boy is irrevocably attached to Derek, and Stiles has nothing to do but to watch them refreshing their bond.  

“What, pup? What's hurting?” he asks when the kid cringes some more.

“I'm hot, Daddy.”

Stiles eases his palm on the kid's forehead, feeling the temperature on his skin. “The fever is high,” he heaves out looking up at Derek beside him.

The taller man holds a hand up for their son to clench, and Stiles stares as their palms slide together until Avery's small fingers can only peek out of Derek's large fist.

“How do you feel about having a shower, kiddo?”

 

≈≈≈

 

The first time he and Derek met, Stiles was only a young artist freshly graduated at CalArts. An emergent photographer moving towards a promising career that could have hopefully helped him pay down his student loans. Regardless of his professors high expectations, he had no real expectancy about his future. If you asked him, he would have gladly settled with only meeting his bare necessities, as long as he could live observing the human nature through the lens of his camera.

So on a cold December night, when he had already shook one too many hands and dealt with a lounge full of editors and critics and dealers and journalists his professor had wanted to introduce him to, Stiles simply sneaked out in quest of a quieter room.

He started roaming around the different installations of the gallery, scrutinizing carefully each spectator, collecting faces and storing reactions in his mind: ignorantly stunned, deliberately bored, profoundly outraged, sincerely amazed, bore to the fucking core...

Stiles had never got the meaning of hanging photographs on the walls for a bunch of art haughty hipsters to see. Photography was supposed to communicate the majesty, the wonder, the dynamism of life, all ideas that sure as hell couldn't be spread by dangling midair from the ceiling in a closed space whose entrance required 20 bucks. Who were they kidding?

He slowly reached the end of the gallery where the last piece stood alone. He had been sure that room would have been empty, mostly due to the fact people got tired sooner or were too put out by that photo to really stay and delve into its meaning. But when he stepped into it, a presence proved him wrong.

A man sat in front of the art, shoulders slumped down to the point Stiles feared the seams of his blue tuxedo could have frayed any second. Elbows on his thighs, and hands pending between them, almost joined in prayer, he didn't acknowledge Stiles' advent, entirely enraptured by the picture as in the attempt to enter it.

The image depicted the scene of a mother during her first delivery, the most emotional moment that could have been portrayed, according to Stiles. He felt his chest overflowing whenever his eyes fell on it, and if his level of attention was something to go by, this man strongly shared Stiles' feelings. So, perfectly content with the aura of reverence that had surrounded that photograph, he did as to walk back from where he had come, pulling his weight from the door frame.

But then the other man shifted his weight digging his head into his palms.

Stiles froze. Unless his mind had started giving him hallucinations, he was sure he had just heard a sob. He carefully stepped farther into the room, reaching out for the stranger's shoulder whilst asking, “Is everything alright?”

The man turned around with eyes so full of tears that his irises resembled round mirrors, blurred in different shades of blue and gray. Stiles caved in under his piercing look, feeling like he was suddenly free falling in those oceans of pain.

 

“Pediatrician, really? You must truly love kids, then.”

Derek responded by simply beaming and nodding shyly at the floor. If Stiles hadn't already fallen for him, he definitely would have in that moment. This man had been crying, moved by Stiles' favorite piece of art. It was only logic for him to want to know more about this creature, longing to rummage through his passions and breach in his core.

“Can I ask you something? I mean, it could be kinda intimate so if it makes you uncomfortable please say it, because I know I can be very inappropriate at times and I really, truly have no intention of making you run awa-”

“Stiles, breathe!” Derek said, putting an hand on his shoulder. Stiles did as he was ordered, but that brief touch seemed to let its print burning through his jacket.

“Sorry.”

Derek chuckled, “Just ask it, okay?” And, _God if he wasn't gorgeous_.

Stiles hesitated, took a deep breath and turned his stare at the photograph. “What is it that moved you so much about this picture?” he asked, nudging at it, then looking back at the living piece of art sitting beside him.

But Derek wasn't looking at the picture.

Derek was looking at Stiles.

 _Staring_. He was freaking staring at Stiles with something resembling wonderment in his eyes, like Stiles was the most beautiful piece of the whole fucking exhibit.

“I...” the man blinked away the state of trance and forced himself to focus. He steered his face towards the wall. “I think I just empathized with the photographer." He paused for a while and Stiles thought he would have to make do with that answer.

But then he picked up again.

"You know, I believe art is something you have to feel. It's generally a message a soul sends out hoping to reach other similar ones that can feel them, understand them. It's not always conscious or deliberate, but if it's real art, it's always there. I mean, there's so much love for life in this picture. And... Can you see the small smile on the mother's lips while she breathes out?” He asked Stiles, pointing his index in a general direction around the girl's face. “The fact the author chose to exhibit that exact shot rather than the dozens of other frames he captured immediately before or after it... it means something. The head of the baby is peaking out, so the fatigue is almost over and the mother knows it. She feels it, and her expression gives away she's already tasting the moment she would hold her baby in her arms. It could be even seen as a metaphor, if you'd want to analyze it in a specific artistic way: life will always be worth the pain in the end. I don't know- I guess I was feeling the author's soul a little too much when you saw me crying. I guess I've thought he or she must have suffered a lot in life. And in spite of that, they still appear determined to fight on and put a lot of effort in brand new conquers of happiness. Which I can perfectly relate to...”

Silence fell and time seemed to speed up again, after minutes had been dilating for so long.

“Or,” he resumed. “Maybe I'm just biased and I'm convincing myself that's the author's message but it's really just my experience that leads me to this interpretation.” He snorted at himself, slowly turning again towards a shell-shocked Stiles who was hanging on each word Derek had just pronounced.

That speech had left Stiles with the impression he had found _something_ , something special that he couldn't let go. Every thought, every theory about the picture, every feeling he had decided to share with a perfect stranger opening up like no one ever had... it felt perfect. _He_ was perfect, with his damn eyes whose color Stiles couldn't decided on, his timid smile and that five o'clock shade that made him look way older. Actually, how old was he again?

When they gaze met again, Derek's eyes went wide.

“Stiles, you are...” he did as to reach for something on Stiles' cheekbone, but his hand hovered mid air without ever landing.

“What?” he asked worried.

“...Crying.” Derek finally heaved out the word with solemnity, as if someone had suddenly stole all the oxygen in the room.

All of a sudden, Stiles felt his cheek damping under the salted streaks tears were leaving behind. He inhaled heavily, broadening his chest, feeling the panic curling around his sternum. “I-” he stuttered. “I thought you knew.”

“What? What was I supposed to know?” Derek asked in an alarmed tone.

Stiles blinked away the remaining tears, wiping his lashes with his expensive shirt's hem, in the classiest of manners. His eyes stayed closed as he mustered some more courage.

“I gave for granted you knew I was the author...”

Stiles felt the older man stiffen, so that when he slid his lids up he found Derek staring into the space between them, with his lips slightly parted just in case his lungs had decided to start functioning again soon.

“You... I- Please tell me I didn't humiliate myself.”

Derek bashfulness was striking. Since the first moment Stiles' eyes had flown on him and his closed posture, he had known Derek wasn't one of those chatty, easy-going people you usually meet at events like that. He had wished he'd had his camera with him, to show Derek how unjustified his insecurities were.

Stiles shook his head a little too vehemently. “Not at all,” his eyes still shying away from the other, but his hands itching to brave out and reach for Derek. “You heard my call, Derek. You read my message. You _felt_ it.”

Eventually, he gave in to his desire, letting his finger skim on the man' skin, as his heart threatened to explode.

“You felt _me_.”

That night Stiles and Derek had talked about everything and anything, trying to discover as much about the other as it was possible in the short time they had left before the gallery's closing. And even after that, they had kept talking, walking down the streets of San Diego without really caring about the night ticking away at each of their steps. Once on his front door steps, Stiles had even asked Derek into his house to talk some more.

They had talked for days, until words had just not been enough anymore.

≈≈≈

 

When Stiles enters the bathroom bringing Avery's clean clothes and a new set of towels, his eyes meet with the sight of Derek's almost completely naked body knelt down to help his son remove his outerwear. The toddler's holding onto his father's shoulders to get out of his pants, giggling at something the man has just said and which Stiles is clearly oblivious to.

What he's not oblivious to, though, is the smile Derek is wearing and vainly trying to hide, and the look of adoration towards his son. Derek has spent the day attempting to clear out a bit of the tension, to make Avery forget his temporary painful state, and that faint laughter is the sign of his small accomplishment.

Once Avery's skin is finally free, Derek gets up, lifting him up to hold him on his eye level. Even after a decade, two children to take care of and a job that keeps him busy five days a week, he still manages to keep in shape. Stiles is a little bit envious, but he can't really complain about broad shoulders, sculptured abdomen and strong legs his husband goes so proud of.

 _Cool down and stay focused, Stiles_.

It's just his husband, after all. His beautiful, sexy and very naked husband. Nothing he haven't seen every day for the last twelve years.

He shakes off any inappropriate thought that could cross his mind at the sight of this piece of a man, in front of their four-year-old. “Wait? Who's going into the shower?”

The boys looked at him at the same time, contemporaneously pointing at each other.

“Him.” Derek says, at the same time Avery emphatically blurts out, “Him!” And the whole scene is so hilarious Stiles can't help but burst into laugh.

“Are you sure you don't want Daddy with you?” he asks moments later, but Avery resolutely shakes his head.

“Nope. I want Dad.”

“Okay,” Stiles slurred out dragging the _A_ on a bit too much. He sits down on the kids stool they kept there, and scowls. “I'm gonna stay here, acting like that didn't hurt my feelings.”

Avery leans in to whisper something secret into Derek's ear, and Derek turns around to meet that small pair of eyes so similar to his, communicating silently. Both turned to ogle Stiles suspiciously, before pouncing him. It all happens so fast Stiles doesn't see it coming, until he suddenly finds himself ambushed by two pair of lips sticking on both sides of his face.

When he pushes them away he's laughing again. “In the tub, you two cheek-kissers!” he orders, and Derek smiles at him.

But then Avery's back at moaning from the pain, hiding his face on his father's shoulder and wrapping his tiny arm around his neck. Derek's grip tightens protectively on the small of the kid's back, “Nausea again?”

Avery nods and Derek doesn't waste any more time, stepping into the tub with his son in tow and turning the water on. He walks under the gentle, warm spray and sit on the short rim of the bathtub, holding a sick Avery onto his lap.

When the kid vomits, Derek doesn't even flinch, letting the shower rinse everything off of him. He simply persists in fondling Avery's damp hair and kissing him on the top of it in reassurance. The baby keeps whining and Derek hushes him, comforting him with his presence.

“Stay strong, buddy. It will pass,” he says. But Avery is a wreck, sagging shoulders and head resting on his dad's chest, utterly consumed by the tiring day that is finally coming to an end.

Stiles stares at the scene projecting in front of his eyes, but doesn't hesitate more than necessary.

As silently as possible, he walks out the bath to seek for his camera, and then back in, hoping nothing has moved in the meanwhile. But Derek is still there, stroking his son's spine to soothe his sickness away, as he lifts his head to cross his lover's gaze.

It takes Stiles back to twelve years ago, to two warm bodies wrapped around each other against the December stormy weather whistling outside, two young hearts dreaming about family without really having the courage to make any project for their future.

Stiles can still recall every single detail of that first night. He remembers the rustling of the sheets, the sweetness of Derek's lips on his skin, the breaths rolling out of their mouths to hang heavy above them, and the pleasurable sounds that had filled the room. He remembers the sense of home he had never felt in that now long forgotten apartment until Derek had stepped in, fitting into the picture like he was always meant for it. He remembers waking up to a cocoon of Derek, arms wrapped around him, whispered words and gentle kisses. And he remembers the conversation that had arisen with the sun that same morning.

“I think I wasn't completely honest at the gallery the other day.” Derek had brought up while combing his fingers through Stiles' strands.

“Oh my god, tell me you _really_ didn't know I was the author!”

Derek had burst into laugh, “I swear!”

“Then what have you lied about?”

“I didn't lie. I omitted.” He had stared down at Stiles, who was craning his neck to look him in the eye from where he was laying his head on Derek's chest. “There's another reason I cried in front of the picture.”

Stiles had gently cupped his cheek with his palm, patiently waiting. “I'll listen, if and whenever you want to tell me.”

“I already told you I have lost most of my family and now Cora's everything I have left. But I grew up in a big family, and I would love to have one again in the future. However-”

“You're afraid you'll never see the day your child will be born.”

“I'm gay, Stiles.”

“Really? And here I thought you had mistaken me for a chick, yesterday!” He had sarcastically burst out, gaining one of Derek's broad smiles. “So am I, Derek,” he had murmured in a lower pitch, brushing his thumb on the man's cheekbone. “And I want kids, plural. So yeah, maybe you won't see your wife giving birth to your children, but that doesn't mean you won't have them come to life at all.”

At that point, Derek had tightened his grasp on Stiles, rolled them both around and lean down to kiss him fool.

To think about that conversation now in light of the current events, all those words pale, losing their meaning. It was so long ago, before naivety could leave room to experience, before hopelessness could fade into a brand new happiness built one brick of trust at a time, one day at a time.

And maybe they're still working on it, maybe they still have a long life to live together and raise two kids... But looking into Derek's eyes, Stiles feels the soundness of his existence lie upon this solid ground, and he has faith. He feels blessed admiring his kid clutching his chubby hands closed in small fists on his superhero's chest, head beginning to dangle as he slowly dozes off to sleep, lulled by the steams and the pouring water. He feels complete as Derek closes his arms around Avery like a wolf that protects his cub. He observes this man, the father of his kids, this companion, this mate he has chosen for life in one of his sporadic outbreaks of wisdom, and he fills with love.

Because this mended soul in front of him has heard his appeal, has felt Stiles' equally mended soul and blindly searched for him. Derek had dropped into his life as the unmistakable cliche he was, like the final stitch for the wound on his heart to finally scar over.

Stiles smiles as his chest brims with pride and his eyes with tears. He knows Derek's glance is still on him while he fiddles with his camera to find the perfect focal length, but he tries to let him know.

Once he's found the right light, he finally holds it up and shoots.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That's it, folks. I really hope you liked it!  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/Deianeira__) & [tumblr](http://itsdeianeira.tumblr.com/) if you feel like dropping a critique on this or any of my works, chitchat about anything or if you are simply in need of a hug (I love hugs!) ❤️


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